


I Have This Breath, and I Hold It Tight

by interlude



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Coda, Episode: s04e11 The Other Side, F/M, John Murphy is definitely Not Over the hanging, People need to stop touching his neck, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:57:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interlude/pseuds/interlude
Summary: Murphy wakes up after the events of 4x11, wrestles with a memory, and tries to find Emori.





	I Have This Breath, and I Hold It Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Between Two Lungs" by Florence and the Machine
> 
> This ended up shorter than I meant for it to be, but I was rushing a little to get it out before next episode. Also, I may have messed up Clarke’s reasons for not opening the door, but I don’t care because everyone’s reasoning this ep was kind of dumb.
> 
>  
> 
> Also the end is pretty cheesy, forgive me.

Murphy dreams about the hanging. He hasn’t thought about it in a long time. That’s a lie – he hasn’t thought about it _recently_. Not since Becca’s lab, at least.

 

But he remembers it vividly as he blinks awake, skin still buzzing with panic, his fight or flight response kicked into high gear. His throat aches. Murphy coughs, roughly, as if he can dislodge the lingering sense of suffocating weight. He raises a hand to it, brushing his fingers against the sore skin gingerly.

 

It takes him a moment to remember the bruises he’ll surely have tomorrow were caused by Bellamy’s arms and not a noose. The clarification doesn’t calm his rampaging heartbeat, or the rolling sea of nausea in his stomach, or the overwhelming sense of vulnerability and terror.

 

He’s starting to wonder if there isn’t a target painted on his throat that everyone but him can see.

 

His head is muddled with the kind of thick fog that sticks after a deep sleep. Thoughts drift in slowly; it takes Murphy a moment to separate recent events from those of nearly a year ago and to piece together what happened. He’s on a bed. He’s not quite sure how he got there. The chain that Bellamy was on is bloody and no longer attached to anyone.

 

Oh, he thinks – Abby. He wonders why Clarke didn’t think to worry about her own mother. Then, if Abby helped Bellamy do exactly what Clarke was afraid he would.

 

Then, _Emori_.

 

Murphy scrambles off the cot and to his feet. The door has been left open – a small miracle. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he had woken up to see he’d been locked up again.

 

Murphy has never been the fastest runner, but there’s a desperation that spurs him on as he sprints down the empty hall, feet pounding out a beat on the cement in time with his heart.

 

Did the doors open to a sea of angry grounders bent on revenge against Skaikru and all associated? Were they stringing Emori up like they had once done to him, cutting her skin slowly for the crimes of his people – for the crimes of _Clarke_?

 

Was the war waged while he’s been unconscious? Is he only alive still because Abby and Bellamy left him tucked away in a cell?

 

Is she _safe_?

 

The cell they were holding Bellamy in is five floors down. Clarke had wanted to put as much space between him and the bunker door as possible. He doesn’t see anyone as he makes it to the stairs, sprinting up them with little coordination. There’s a tempest raging in his gut. Sweat beads at his temple and on the back of his neck. His chest heaves with both exertion and panic.

 

As he nears the first level, Murphy hears the clamor of angry voices. It grows louder as he pushes through the door to the stairwell and exits into a mass of upset people.

 

Everyone in the bunker seems to be crowded around the entrance. Everyone also appears to be furious.

 

But there doesn’t seem to be an invading army of grounders or people dying from radiation or any of the threats that Clarke had attached to opening the bunker door.

 

Murphy comes to a stop at the edge of the crowd, eyes flickering through the assorted faces frantically. His eyes catch on Bellamy, standing solemn near the door. Octavia is beside him, clearly alive, but covered in blood and grounder war paint.

  
White hot anger flashes through his chest. Bellamy had touched his – it had felt like – _he couldn’t **breathe**._

 

Pain sparks in his palms, nails digging into skin as he clenches his fists tightly. There’s a very strong urge to push his way through the crowd and punch Bellamy right in the face.

 

But Emori is more important.

 

Murphy drags his gaze away from Bellamy and back into the crowd, pushing the anger down. He tries to spot the distinctive tattoo. Or her head scarf. _Something._

 

But, as usual, she finds him first. “John?” He turns his face towards the sound. Emori is pushing and weaving her way through the mob, heading towards him. As soon as she’s in reach, he grabs her arm, pulls her away from the others, and buries her within his arms.  She’s fine, he assures himself. She’s safe.

 

A heavy weight lifts off his chest, and he breathes, deeply.

 

 

 

 


End file.
